I was sorry to learn yesterday that Molly Ivins passed away.  I'd been reading scattered comments the last couple of weeks that made it sound like things were coming to a close with her.  Of all the contemporary professional Texans our state has foisted on a wary world, she was the one who never tempted me to mutter, “Yeah, I'm from Oklahoma.”

On today's Democracy Now, they showed some of an interview from last year where Amy Goodman was speaking with Molly, who was looking a bit shaky, but still came off as vibrant, witty, and wise (not just wise of ass).

She said something that almost had me choking on my morning latte.

It had to do with the intellectual limitations of her favorite Shrub, George W.; in this instance, the ten Guv's self-professed fluency in Spanish.  (And here I paraphrase from memory.)

“On his campaign tours in the [Rio Grande] Valley, he'd always speak the same two sentences in espanol, and quickly someone would cue the mariachis.”

She belittled those in positions of power, but somehow managed never to be mean.  She'll be missed.

Shit.  Now I'm feeling really sad.

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Yesterday my friend Jorge came by to take me out to lunch.  A sort of early birthday present.  We went to Cascabels.  A good choice, I thought when we'd taken a table.  Not only is the food excellent — interior Mexican cuisine at humble prices — but it's the place where me, Deborah, and Ramon met for one of our early meetings that eventually lead to our trip to San Miguel de Allende to make our Dia de los Locos video.  Cascabels allows their patrons to write on the walls with Sharpies.  We three had defined ourselves as “los tres locos” and signed our names on the wall.  And months later we found ourselves in a little place that specialized in pozole off the town square in San Miguel where they also allowed patrons to write on the wall — we did so, for the second time.  Los Tres Locos.  It is only fitting that I found myself having lunch at Cascabels with Jorge Lopez Ramirez, the fourth loco, the man who helped me with the translation of the documentary.  I guess I should have had a Sharpie with me.

Jorge has done some music videos for his nephew's rock en espanol band, Freqüencia.  One of them that he's working on incorporates footage from my second Short Ends film, “Awakened by an R.”  Watching the edit he brought to show me, made me realize how static my shooting style is.  I'm wondering if it lends itself to the music video style.  We'll see.

Perhaps my favorite bit in Awakened is the two opening shots.  The first set-up is some weird flood-gate management station near my neighborhood.  In retrospect, I should have given the camera a tiny bit of motion.  A very slight dolly in would have kicked ass.  I love the color I got out of the sky in post.  And the second shot — a jib tracking shot of Carlos walking — is perfect … for about seven seconds.  I should have cut much sooner.  But I think what makes these first seconds so sweet is how the music — Freqüencia — conveys a potent sense of the elegiac, that beautiful pain of loss.  The first 20 seconds of “Awakened by an R” may be the best thing I've done in the film/video world.

Jorge has some time on his hands, and is making the most of it.  Editing projects. And he even shot a short with the help of Roland, Kareem, and Amanda, which he is also editing.  He seriously wants to learn the craft, and is learning by doing.  Isn't that the motto of the 4-H Club?  “Learn to do by doing.”  Words to live by.

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I've been waylaid by a cold.  But I rallied for my weekly walk with Dar.  We met at McAllister Park.  A beautiful day.  Sunlight.  Warm enough for shorts.  And nothing could have better illustrated my being out of sorts (“feeling puny,” my father would have said) than my sudden realization that I was wearing my workout shorts inside out.  I was so close to getting back in my truck and taking them off to turn them around, but it hit me that McAllister Park has a certain, um, reputation, and getting busted for taking off your pants in McAllister Park — well, it's just the sort of thing that could give folks the wrong idea.

Dar told me that Andy officially starts work at Time Warner Cable on Monday.  (Congrats, Andy!)  Tomorrow is his final day of orientation.  I think Dar is expecting him to return home loaded down with all the equipment that will allow them complete access to every TV channel know — the stuff of the gods!

I guess I'll never see Dar again.  She'll be too busy with her “stories.”

Nice knowing you, babe.

I've added another short story to my fictional blog.

Click on over.

I don't know why I keep writing about dogs.

I dropped by Urban-15 this morning to talk with George Cisneros about a few projects they have in the works.

One is a video installation George is rushing to complete for the Museo Americano, the local San Antonio Smithsonian affiliate museum.  Budgetary concerns apparently forced the piece to be scaled back, but, still, it seems pretty ambitious.  Much of what George needs help on involves a solid expertise on a few rather exotic editing programs unfamiliar to me.  I would have given thought to admitting knowledge nonetheless, and taught them to myself in a speedy panic, but the turn-around is so short that he has already hit the group running.  I can't learn that fast.  I will, however, be doing my part here and there.

The entire video installation will look damn cool when it's complete.

We also talked about the first annual Josiah Youth Media Festival, named after Josiah Neundorf, a young San Antonio filmmaker who passed away from cancer at the end of March of last year.  It looks like George and Catherine may have enough funds in their operating costs to take me on in a temp part-time basis to help bring this fest together.

I'll be getting into this more specifically late February when more information begins to run through the pipes.

But things are moving along at Urban-15.  After I left, George and Cat were mixing up some aguas frescas for a bunch of architects who were coming to check out the place.  They will be tending bids to renovate the sanctuary in the west wing of the building.

I love their space.  So many possibilities.

This first half of the year promises to be a riot of activity for me.  I've already committed to nine projects / events.  Five will pay.  But not enough.  My seasonal work with The Company — scoring standardized tests — should begin anew late February.  Then I might be able to start paying some bills.

Saturday night I drove out to the hinterlands around Universal City and Converse for the cast and crew preproduction mixer at Robin and Kevin's place.

I finally had a chance to see the sound-booth Kevin made in the garage.  There is still room to squeeze in one car.  A small car.  By the rest has been walled off to make an editing suit / sound-studio, complete with a plexiglas window looking onto a soundproof sound booth that's more cozy than cramped.  Very impressive.

There must have been 25 cast and crew, as well as parents of the child actors.  We all took turns giving our names and our character or crew position.

Our sound man, Rudolfo showed up a bit late.  And after he and his wife Miriam had said their hellos all around, Russ cleared his throat.

“Rudolfo, you came in a bit late.  But we all took turns introducing ourselves and sang our favorite song.”

No one in the room made a sound.

Rudolfo was standing by the door.  He took a moment, and said:  “My name is Rudolfo, and, I hope you don't mind if I sing in Spanish.”

He sang a couple of bars, before interrupting himself.

“You'll excuse me singing to my wife.  It's a serenade.”

He returned to the song, directing it sweetly and softly to Miriam who was sitting cross-legged on the floor.  After about two verses, he trailed off.  “It gets a bit–”  He searched for the word.  “Racy?”

We all laughed.

Miriam shot to her feet.  A few people tried to explain it was all just a joke, that none of us had actually sang.  But she wasn't listening.  After some thought, she launched into something so appallingly '70s, that I've purged it from my memory cache.  Olivia Newton-John?  Karen Carpenter?  Whatever, it had me grinning.  They came to play.  I like that.

Tim and Anne Gerber showed up.  I hadn't known that Anne was even in the production until someone had told me the day previous.  Anne's presence can only help any film.  She's cast as the character whose motivations are poorly realized in the script.  I'm glad Robin brought her on.  Anne will add considerable depth to her character.  Also, Anne mentioned that her mother occasionally reads my blog.  Apparently to see what's going on in San Antonio.  She lives, I believe, in Toledo.  If you're reading this, Anne's mom, howdy.  Your little girl continues to take this town by storm.  I guess the only thing keeping her from hitting the boards on Broadway or basking the lime-lit studios of Hollywood, is the hubby's firm commitment to KSAT TV.  Oh, well.  I guess some people need to act responsibly.  What I mean, is, children, please, don't take a page from my life's playbook.

The desperate lifestyle of the perennially unemployed has, today, reduced me to experiment with the culinary nuances of oatcakes.  This afternoon was cold, cloudy, and I had no desire to venture out.  Beside, I'd blown my budget this morning on 2 dollars worth of typing paper at the Dollar General Store.  So, as I checked the larder, I noticed I still had an ample supply of oat groats.  At 79 cents a pound, you can't go wrong.  I pulse them in an electric coffee grinder for steel cut oats.  But I'm always intrigued with the rustic foodstuffs.  Oatcakes?  What are they, really?  A quick internet search came up with a rock-bottom basic peasant version.  Oat flour.  Water.  Mix.  Cook.  Yeah.  That sounds promising.  So I lean on the button of my coffee grinder, until the groats are a powder.  Add a bit of water.  Make a paste similar to corn masa for tortillas.  Then I shape out a thin patty and toast it on a cast iron skillet at medium heat for, I don't know, maybe three minutes a side.  It's surprisingly flavorful, even unadorned.  Come summer, I think I'll try them with fresh mango and pineapple drizzled in lime juice.

Shit, I think I just managed to make romantic the image of me gnawing away like some species of Glaswegian rodent on a roundel of toasted oat paste.

At least I got a call around 4pm from Russ.  He's just finished the first day at his new teaching gig at the Harlandale arts magnet highschool, AKA, The Film School of San Antonio.  The campus is located a few miles south of me.  And as he still lives way up north in New Braunfels, he called to invited me to a late lunch, while the rush hour traffic subsided.  Actually, I was hoping he's do just that, and had gone easy on the oatcake action.

Tito's Tacos makes some kick-ass enchiladas.  Just ask young Cooper Barnstrom.  They load up the sauce with just the right amount of oregano.  And the salsa on the side is positively addictive.

Russ mentioned the absurd ease with which he could take over the entire film department.  A bloodless coup.  Department head George Ozuna and colleague Dagoberto Patlan were absent.  Sundance, I believe.  Whatever….  Anyway, it was the time to strike.  But he faltered.  This is awfully early to show weakness, I thought, but I held my tongue.  Hell, the guy was paying for my enchiladas.

After stuffing myself, I headed to Gemini Ink, for their monthly free writing group.  I had prepared myself with ten copies of the piece on which I wanted feedback.  This explains my trip earlier in the day to the Dollar General Store.

The rules are simple.  No more than 4 pages, double spaced.  (Actually, I hit them with 1.5 spaces — double space makes me feel like I'm reading Weekly World News headlines (and, on a good day, the content of my stuff makes me feel that as well).)

The turnout was the largest I'd yet seen.  Tonight was my third or fourth visit.  We had ten people in all, including me and the guy who runs the event.  What a stroke of luck.

As often is the case, there were some strong writers, and some who were struggling (and not always aware of the fact).  There was only one participant I recognized from previous visits.  He's an older guy, and he has a strong, uncompromising voice.  His work is dense and challenging.  He speaks favorably of Dreiser and Rabassa (the great translator from Spanish into English).

Eventually the group leader began to squirm like we were going long.  I was the next person to read, and he mentioned something about how those who didn't get a chance, would be placed at the top of the list for next month.  I followed his eyes, and realized that there was a clock on the wall behind me.

Someone spoke before I had a chance.

“The web site says we meet from 6:30 until 8:30.”  It was eight o'clock.

“Really?” the leader asked, dubiously.

I and half a dozen others agreed with the protester.  And thus, I was allowed to read my four pages.  I'll stuff it in the body of this blog entry.  Those incurious can tune out now.  Nothing new to see here.  Just move alone.

I mainly wanted the folks at the table to let me know if I was making a huge blunder in my attempts to write first person in the voice of a 40 year old woman.  So, here we go, the first 1600 words of a current novel in progress:

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They don't like the processed inmates hunkered down by the front gates, and I sure as hell didn't want to be hanging out there.  I had already arranged to meet my ride in front of the old train station on the Gatesville town square.  I had on what I came in with.  Black denim holds up pretty well in a dry-cleaning bag for 17 years.  The jeans fit tight at the hips and my jacket, in the shoulders.  I'd got a bit fat, I guess.  Also, put on some muscle.  My watch needed tightening one hole back. And my Doc Martins seemed a bit loose.  The yellow canvas courier bag slung over my shoulder was empty.  I had some money, not a lot, in my pocket.  That was it.  Not even a drivers license.  Strange, I was free.  Walking on the streets, a free woman, and not a single piece of identification.

I'd been a longtime resident in this city–just on the outskirts–and I knew nothing about it.  Some of the girls, who'd been in and out, drilled the routine in my head.  Left at the gates, three miles to the courthouse, a left and a right.  The train station, now a museum.  It had plenty of parking.  No one ever visited the museum.  The perfect place for a friend or relative to take you … wherever.  Away.

I sat on a woodrailed green bench and waited for my cousin, Frank.  And I kept my eyes just to the left of the bank sign that told me the time (3:23 pm) and the temperature (87 degrees).  People would occasionally stroll past.  I don't know what cues they might have to work with, but I have no doubt my history was laid bare.  They see us all the time, awkward, pale, and broken-hearted.  Happy for being outside?  Sure.  I guess.  But there are other things you feel that aren't about liberation.  There is that absolute certainty that not a single citizen of this town could confuse you for someone normal, someone good.

Frank showed up at the arranged time.  Three-thirty.  He'd not changed a bit.  Always reliable.  I bet he circled the square a couple of times before angling into the parking slot.  At first I thought he was driving the same battered pickup truck he'd had back when, but on closer inspection, I knew it was a newer model.  He got out, grinning, and came around to my bench just as I was standing up.  He grabbed me in a hug and spun me around a couple of times.  We were never that close, and had hardly spoken or written in the last 17 years.  But he had put a five year stint here at Gatesville back when I was a teenager .  So, I guess we had a connection.  Also, I could smell beer on him.  Beer always made him happy.

“Janie!  You haven't changed a bit.”

I didn't believe a word of it.  But he was pretty much as I remembered him.  Stick-thin, Buddy Holly glasses, a weeks-worth of stubble, and a paint-splattered flannel shirt over a heavy metal t-shirt.  He had wrinkles around his eyes, now, when he smiled.  I liked that.  And he had flakes of grey in his hair and his beard.  I liked that too.

“So, you want a drink?”

“You got a cooler?” I asked, assuming it to be a rhetorical question.

“Huh?  Oh, no.  I was thinking a bar.”

“Dry county.”

“I forgot.  So, let's get the fuck out of town.  Place gives me the creeps.”

We never did stop for a drink.  For the best, really.  That was a vice I wasn't keen on falling back into.

It took us about fifteen minutes to catch up on the last 17 years, and after that, the rest of the two hour drive up I-35 was pretty much quiet.
   
Somewhere near the Midlothian exit, Frank asked if mom was expecting me.
 
“Yeah.  I mean, I guess.  She knows I'm getting out today.  Where else does she think I'll go?”

“Maybe we should pull off and call.”

I shook my head.

“Charlie's not going to let you stay there,” Frank said softly.

“I don't know anything about the guy.  He's not even married to her.”

“She does what he says, pretty much.  And he's doesn't think kindly towards you.  He's military, you know that?  And to listen to him talk, you'd think he's still in uniform.”

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Momma never had any money.  We were poor growing up.  She worked for an impound lot, doing all the paperwork — still does, in fact.  She calls herself a secretary, but she pretty much runs the place.

She didn't have the money or the time to come down and visit me often at the Mountain View Unit in Gatesville Prison.  After the first year, we came to an agreement.  She would come twice a year.  My birthday and her birthday.  None of that holiday crap.  That was when the visiting room most crowded … and sad.  Especially at Christmas.

It was on one of her visits about four years ago,  that my mother first mentioned Charlie.  I was thrilled that she'd found a man she cared for.  The only guy I remembering her with all throughout my childhood was Lanny.  He was a permanent fixture in our lives from when I was about nine until I was twelve.  He wrote art history textbooks and taught at Texas Wesleyan University.  He made me laugh and my mother blush.  In the summer of 1978 he parked his car, an old Nash Rambler, at the shore of Lake Worth, and he shot himself in the head.  No one ever knew why.

But even though I was happy for my mother, Charlie didn't sound the sort of man who would ever make her blush.  Or me laugh.

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Momma shed a few tears as we embraced on the porch.  The house had a new coat of paint, a pale orange that made me sick to my stomach.  The huge pecan tree in the front yard was no longer there, not even a stump.  She didn't invite me inside, and things weren't looking good.  Frank slipped by us and I could heard him talking to someone inside.  A couple of minutes later, Frank came out sipping on a tall boy.  He straddled the weathered wooden railing and looked across toward the Hulen Street bridge over Vickery.  The sun had just dropped behind it.

“You should have called,” said the large man who followed Frank outside.  He was pale as a corpse.  Balding with a buzz cut, and more solid than fat.  He wore khaki trousers with pressed seams and a peach guayabera shirt.  “She's been fretting all day.”  He extended his hand and said his name was Charlie.  We shook.
 
I just went ahead and blurted it out.

“Momma, I need a place to stay.”

She stiffened and turned from me.

“Not going to happen, little lady,” Charlie said with a cardboard smile as he looked straight into my eyes.

I felt my throat clamp up, but I did not cry.

“Doesn't she had some say?” I whispered.

“Your mother and me have been all over this.  We are of one mind.”

Momma turned to me, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
 
“I assumed you'd be staying with Frank until you got on your feet,” she said.

Frank was in mid-guzzle and he almost choked.  He held up his hand until he swallowed.  Then he placed the can on the rail.

“Fraid the state of Texas'd have some issues with that,” he said with a smile.

Charlie nodded.  “Guess felon with felon would be violating little missy's parole.”

“I've served my time,” I said, meeting Charlie's eyes full on.  “There's no parole.”

“Janie's right there,” Frank said.  “She's free and clear.  It's me that'd be in violation.”  He turned to me.  “Sorry, kid.  Thirteen more months.”

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I let momma buy me a couple of tacos al pastor at a little taquaria I used to love.  They tasted exactly as I remembered.
 
We sat, just the two of us, at a table outside the little shack of a restaurant as the sun sank.
 
“I don't have any place to go,” I told her, looking at the tabletop.  “What the fuck is his problem?”

She shushed me, looking nervously around, but we were the only people there.

“I mean, he let Frank go in and help himself to the refrigerator.  Grand theft auto. Possession with intent to distribute.  And whatever Frank's done that has him on probation.  What makes me the pariah?”

Momma looked at the street as the cars sped by.

“Well?”

“Charlie thinks that your crime was … more egregious.”  She turned to me with a strained smile.  “That's him talking, honey.  That's him talking.”

She gathered up my paper plate, napkin, and styrofoam cup and placed them in a trash barrel.

“You still have Sammie.  She'll put you up until you get a place.”

I never remembered my mother being that weak.  She gave me some money and drove me about a mile down Vickery to a seedy motel I'd never have visited even at the lowest ebb of my miss-spent youth.       

Matthew Jasso dropped by and we headed over to La Tuna for lunch.  As usual, he has half a dozen projects in various stages of completion.  The guy's got way too much energy.  The sun was out, so we sat outside.  La Tuna wasn't my first choice — the food's great, but it's a bit pricey for me.  However, try to find a parking place at noon on a weekday on S. Alamo.  It's a bitch.  La Tuna has scads of parking.  A drowsy cat sunned himself my feet, no doubt stuffed from handouts of tilapia tacos and torta milanesa.  I waved to my neighbor Jerry who was breaking for lunch in the beer garden with one of his geologist colleagues.  In fact, I had a great view of the back of Jerry's house  just across the San Antonio river.  There are times when I really love my neighborhood.

I'm helping Matthew edit a project, and he was kind enough to provide me with a hefty hard drive.  This is just what I need.  Not only for his piece, but some of the jobs that have been languishing because I've run out of storage space.  For instance, there's this traveling film project looking for filmmakers to take their work on the road.  It pays well, and is the sort of thing I have been thinking of for sometime.  Take films out to the people.  I need to capture ninety minutes or so of some of my better stuff, burn a DVD, send it off to the organization, and hope for the best.  But until now, I lacked the hard drive space.  I'll be able to make the deadline.

I did have some problems installing the drive.  Matthew had loaded it up with a bunch of footage he had already captured.  But I'm thinking that when he set up the drive on his computer, it became formatted to his newer version of the mac operating system.  I'm working with O/S B.C., the Cretaceous edition.  But, with Matthew's aid over the phone, I was able to reformat it.

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Alston joined me for the Methane Sisters' show, As Filthy As It Gets, at the Jump-Start.  We walked over about twenty minutes early.  I was expecting a long line because they made the cover of the Current (the San Antonio free weekly tabloid).  Inside, I only saw about half the seats occupied.  However, they all quickly filled up.

If you like Absolutely Fabulous and Hedwig, you'll enjoy it.  The piece is about half stage performance and half video.

The show opened with the girls in their punk period, hitting the stage like Jane County (formerly Wayne County) who has inexplicably received a blood transfusion from Johnny Thunders.  They were floundering around, singing about cocks and asses, as a guy on drums and another guy on a guitar, played noisily, but with bored indifference.  May Joon (Monessa Esquivel) was feeling up her microphone and grabbing her crotch, as Ann July (Annele Spector) staggered around obliviously, necessitating a roadie (Daniel Jackson, of Babycakes fame) to herd her back towards her microphone.  The cigarette butt tangled in Ann July's tall blue wig was a nice touch. 

There's a bit of video when Monessa's character is being interviewed for a documentary, and an incidental element of fetishistic infantilism and adult diapers is used quite, um, effectively.  I about lost it — and I know Alston was shaking with laughter as well.

The evening dredged up sweet recolletions of my miss-spent youth.  It seems like only yesterday that, I too, was snorting lines of coke off a cross-dressing friend's Judy Garland album.  Sometime even the most outrageous comedic cliche will have a big fat kernel of truth.

Seeing Monessa Esquivel screaming into a microphone wearing clunky black boots, ripped fishnet stockings, and a red bustier, brought back memories of seeing Frightwig, circa 1983, at San Francisco's Vis Club.  In fact, I currently have their first LP, Cat Farm Faboo, spinning on my turntable.  Brilliant.  Imagine the frenetic sludge of Flipper played by foul-mouthed women in shabby vintage dresses singing songs with titles like “Hot Papa,” and “My Crotch Does Not Say Go,” and all this while the members of Bratmobile and Bikini Kill were still trying to figure how to bite the heads off their Barbie dolls without damaging their retainers.  Deep history's what I'm talking about, baby.

Ah, can there be anything sweeter than those moments in popular culture where Trash and Glamour intersect? 

Last night I headed up to see how things are developing at the Woodlawn Theater.  Jonathan Pennington has been pulling things together quite well even with the very daunting work still to go.  But in the true theater tradition  of the show-must-go-on, he keeps the performances running.  Attendance is strong, volunteers are committed, and Jon Gillespie is a tireless champion to the cause of local theater.  I'm scoping out possible venues for the 48 Hour Film Project, and the Woodlawn certainly meets seating requirements.  Parking is a situation that will need to be addressed.  As will the renting of a powerful video projector.  We'll see how things shape up.

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The sun came out today, and finally I could truly enjoy my current status as a gentleman of leisure (i.e., an unemployed bum).  I was able to hang my laundry up on the line … sometime between my first and second cup of espresso.  And then I went out for a bike ride along the Mission Trail.  I've gotten way out of shape and ballooned up easily 25 pounds since last summer.  I decided to toss the bike in my truck and drive it to Mission Park.  This shortened my usual 20 mile bike ride out to and back from Mission Espada down to about 12 miles.  I'm going to have to work my way back up.

Along one stretch of the trail, some guy in cycling shorts and hundred dollar sunglasses buzzed by me.  Good, someone to motivate me.  I'm not a terribly competitive person, but I can rise to the occasion, especially when someone passes me on a bike.  I matched him for about four miles, and then, I looked up, and he was gone.  I remember, not so long ago (or so I tell myself), when I would have had no trouble keeping up with these serious dudes.  A goal to work towards, I suppose.

When I returned to my truck, I decided to make a couple of phone calls there in the parking-lot.  I leaned against the side of my truck and was chatting away when this guy in jeans and a grimy pearl-snap western shirt rolled up to me on his rusty single speed jalopy of a bicycle.  The wire basket attached to the handle bars  held three of those chunky 6 volt lantern batteries, you know, with the coiled terminals on top.  All were wrapped in duct tape, and he had a greasy shop rag draped over them in some attempt to hide or protect them.  He stopped about ten feet from me, and waited, politely.

“Hold on,” I said into the phone.  “What's up?” I asked batteryman.

“Um, I see you have a bike.  Do you know how I can get back on the trail?”

“Yeah.  See that fence over there — horses behind it?  Ride straight to it and turn left.  There's a short path that'll get you back on the trail.”

He nodded, but made no attempt to move.

“Yes…?” I prompted.

“I'm headed to South New Braunfels.  I could take the trail or I could stay on the street.”  He scratched his head.  “This trail will get me to South New Braunfels, right?”

“I don't know that street,” I said with a shrug.

“Of course it will.  It's alongside I-37.”

Now he was telling me, not asking me.

As the exchange was going on, a grizzled coot had pulled up near us in his wheezing Ford Fiesta.  I was wondering if this senior citizen wanted my attention, or that of the battery guy.  But eventually he lost interest and puttered off. 

“Sounds like you've got a good plan,” I said to batteryman with a smile, lifting the phone back up to my ear.

I don't know if he wanted a handout, a ride to his destination with his bike in the bed of my truck, or maybe he just wanted to chat. But finally he got the hint and rode away.

Several minutes later, while I was still in the same phone conversation, I saw, coming up from the bike trail, two young men on mountain bikes.  They were dressed in black slacks, white short-sleeved Oxford shorts, and narrow black ties.

Fuck!  I was still leaning against my truck.  I tried to lower my head, in an attitude of distressed sorrow, hoping they'd think me the midsts of a very personal phone call.  I probably was even trying to squeeze out a tear.

They didn't care.

“Um, sir,” said the older of the two.  He was maybe 20.  They were stopped five feet from me, straddling their bikes.

I lowered my phone.

“Yes?”  And I suspect I was grinning at the absurdity of it all.

“We can see you're on the phone, and all … but do you know if we can get across that bridge from here?  I can see you have a bike and all.”

“What?  What bridge?”  They kept smiling at me.  “You mean that bridge?”  I pointed to the bridge over the river not a hundred yards away in clear sight.  “Sure, you cross the parking-lot to that street.  You know, that street, right in front of you — the one that crosses the river.  The bridge across the river.”

I smiled and began lifting up the phone.

“We don't want to take up your time, but let me give you one of my cards.”

I actually became intrigued.  A real business card?  Malachi Smith, Busybody Missionary.  But no such luck.  It was a flimsy postcard displaying a picture of, you guessed it, the Book of Mormon.

“Thanks,” I said pleasantly, taking the proffered card.

“There's an 800 number.  If you call it, they'll send you a free book.  It's called the Book of Mormon.”  And here followed a quick pitch of Latter Day so forth and so on that I managed to tune out.

But, soon enough they were gone — after:  “You promise me you'll call this number?”

“Yes,” I lied.  Just as the youngster had lied to me that he didn't know how to cross the Mission Parkway bridge.

I should have explained that I already have a copy of the Book of Mormon, and don't really care for it.  A bit of a snoozer, actually.  And then I would have presented my own card.  “Call this number and they'll send you, free of charge, a copy of Fawn M. Brodie's No Man Knows My History.”  (This is a wonderful bio of Joseph Smith that kisses no ass, pulls no punch.)  “You promise me you'll read it, kids?”

And they'd play my game right back in my face, with a smiling, lying assertion of, yes, of course.

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At the moment my iPod is playing some Spacemen 3, but I have my browser open to the constantly refreshing playlist of KEXP out of Seattle.  This evening is a show featuring roots country and new country.  And I noticed that by not being tuned in I missed a Willie Nelson song I've never heard of before titled “Cowboys are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other.”  I just did a quick internet search.  It came out a year ago, and was written by Ned Subblette (no relation, I'm guessing, to fellow Texan Jesse Sublett).  Great title.  It's that twinning of Frequently & Secretly.

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Earlier this evening I walked to Casa Chiapas for the first members meeting of 2007 of the San Antonio chapter of NALIP.

Casa Chiapas is a coffee house and restaurant on S. Alamo in my neighborhood.  It's fairly new.  In the space that Espuma (another coffee house) used to reside.

I believe 18 people showed up, me included.

There are currently three film groups functioning in San Antonio that I know of.  Short Ends, IFMASA, and NALIP.  I may well be the only person who belongs to all three.  I'm not sure
what that says about me (because, really, you gotta believe me here, I'm really not a “joiner”).  Oops.  Jorge Lopez is also a triple member.  And, I shouldn't forget Amanda Silva.  Okay, I'm not so special.

I think people are put off by NALIP for three reasons.  1.) There's a fairly stiff annual membership fee (50 bucks).  2.) The San Antonio chapter, for those on the outside looking in, seems very insular and cliquish.  3.) And then there are those put off by the L in the name: The National Association of Latino Independent Producers.

Well, the membership used to be 35 bucks when I first hit town and encountered the group.  I screened my little films at each of their quarterly video slams, but never joined … because I never had that much spare cash at any given time.  But I finally took the plunge in time for the Adelante Film Forum back in the fall of 2006.  This organization provides quite a bit for the members.  For instance, as a respected national non-profit arts organization, it functions as a potential fiscal sponsor when the members are seeking grants and other types of funding.  And workshops and screenings and scholarships, and of course, networking opportunities.

The cliquishness is something that may or may not be warranted.  But the leadership is changing and the membership is growing.  If this were indeed a valid worry in the past, it's unlikely to continue.

And, then there's the Latino question.  Hmm, you know, there might only be two non-latino members in this, the San Antonio chapter.  Me (anglo-American), and Deon van Rooyen (South African).  Perhaps there are others.  But as a member of a Latino advocacy media organization, I'm confident that much of the work I've done, and work I plan to do, fits comfortably within the parameters of NALIP's mission statement.  Hell, this is San Antonio, and if your cast and crew and script doesn't reflect the cultural demographics, than you really aren't making a San Antonio movie.  Besides, my take is that if you want to make movies, and you have limited resources, play to your strengths; play to what's available; play to regionalism.  And so, los guerros, los gabachos, los gringos, et al, stand tall, fear not, join up with NALIP. 

Their last video slam proved that NALIP members (through collaboration) are making some of the strongest movies in town.  Dora Pena's “Crazy Life” is the clearest testament anyone could ask for.

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And, before I sign off for the night:

Methane Sisters.  “As Filthy As It Gets.”  The show you need to attend.  Six words: Monessa Esquivel, Annele Spector, Sam Lerma.

Jump-Start Theater.  Friday, Saturday, Sunday.  8pm.  I'll be there tomorrow night (Friday).  Hope to see you.     

This week I passed 10,000 hits on my MySpace blog.  I've been posting this blog on MySpace since March 26th, 2006.  However I have no idea how many hits I receive on my Live Journal pages where I post redundantly, because my account doesn't let me track that sort of info. Well, I don't think it does.

The bottom line is, I guess, that a lot of people are peeking in.  That's great.

Right?

Well, here we fall into the confused mindset of the introverted exhibitionist.    “Everyone, hey, hello?  Don't look at me, nothing worth looking at over here.  Nope.  Noting at all ….  Hello.”  Add to that the strange sort of anonymity that the internet can provide.  I mean, you can even use your real name, and what effect does it have to someone a thousand miles away?  A hundred miles away?  I'm just some opinionated ass, by the name of Erik Bosse, who lives in San Antonio, Texas.  Perhaps there are readers of this blog in this very town who will never meet me.

I suspect, however, that a good number of you known me fairly well.  If you don't already know me, it's likely you found me out because I've mentioned you, your friend, your family, your organization, your project.  A Google introduction.  Fine.  I hope you come for the Serendipity, and stay for the, well, whatever it is I'm doing.

At times I wonder how many readers there are who have found me through some weird route that they can't even recall, such as my fumblings that brought me to Jennifer Saylor or Pamela Ribon.

Anyway, please, feel free to drop me a line if you want.  A quick scan of two or three of these blogs will make it quite clear that I have an unpropitious amount of free time.

And if any of you are writing blogs I don't already subscribe to, let me know where your words can be read.  I'd like this door to swing both ways.

Thanks everyone!

Damn you Jennifer!  I've been glued to YouTube (is that their new slogan?) for most of the last two days watching seasons one and two (2005-6) of the current incarnation of Doctor Who.

I never got into it all that much when I was younger.  Tom Baker was the Doctor when I was a kid.  And until Peter Davidson appeared and put me off the whole thing (with his nauseatingly sensitive portrayal (though I was quite keen on the sprig of, what was it, celery?)), Baker was the only Doctor I ever saw.  The PBS station in Dallas never aired those older incarnations of the Doctor.  I watched the show for it's kitsch appeal, the goofy surrealism, and, of course, because Tom Baker was allowed to chew the scenery like Captain Kirk on an IMAX.

But this new BBC production is a different animal.  It's still geared towards kids.  People die, but there's no blood or gore.  For instance, if the Cyber Men decided to turn a human into a robot, the view through a frosted window will show plenty of sparks flying from the rotating blades, but never the sickening splash of blood on glass that you would have gotten in the X-Files.  It's sweet and wholesome, and heaven help me, I love it.  It has all the good parts of Chris Carter and Joss Whedon without the problematic neurosis.  Nice special effects, tight writing, and just a smart production.

There are two Doctors so far.  Christopher Eccleston comes off like he's wandered in from a Guy Ritchy set.  Gaunt, hair cut down to the nub, and he wears  a lapeled leather jacket trimmed to the waist.  He's a hyper-active pub boy, now a bit long of tooth.  David Tennant, the next version of the Doctor, is boyish with a tousle of hair.  He wears a jacket and tie and, when reading is required, he pulls out a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses.  The side-kick who  is carried over through both seasons and both Doctors was played by Billie Piper.  She's always fun to watch.  But for the new season, they've brought in a new girl.

Check it out.  Glue yourself to a YouTube terminal at home or work.  The new Doctor Who.  It's stylish, quirky, and smart.  You'll be thanking me.  Just as I'm thanking Jennifer.

Thank you Jennifer!

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I got very little accomplished today.  And I had such plans.

My neighbor, Marlyss, has an art show coming up.  End of February, I think.  I like the concept, as she explained it to me.  But I still haven't seen the images.  It's a multi-media thing.  She asked me for a sound file she could have going.  She didn't want much.  Just some white noise.  I told her that might be a bit too ugly.  She might chase away the audience.  But she only smiled.  Great!  I smiled back.  Ugly art.  I love ugly art!

I gave her a few options.  White noise is pretty raw.  It's not so much ugly or off-putting as it is painful.  I decided that what she needed was something that, well, “seemed” painful, but was in fact just mildly irritating.  I tracked down a wonderful low hum recorded at a Canadian hydroelectric plant.  I merged the two tracks.  The low Canadian rumblings helped to fill out the white noise.  The marriage created an ugly sound that can be tolerated.  I can't wait to see (and hear) her show.

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Tonight I entered into my first ever conference call.

I was on line with something like 16 other people.  Very weird.  This was for the 48 Hour Film Project, of which I'm the local producer here in San Antonio.  The voices on the line were the four people who run the organization, as well as all the new local producers — such as me.

They all sounded like great people.  And I wish I could make it to the yearly meeting / screening this March in Albuquerque.  But I'm working on Robin's film.  Besides, I'm at a loss how to pay my bills and the rent for February.  I'm just about tapped out.  A drive to New Mexico sounds fun, but it ain't gonna happen.

Sunday.  I remember Sunday.  Warmish. No rain.  Sunlight.  Clear blue skies.  Beautiful!  An island of respite, which the cold, clammy winter repealed as the work week began anew.  And now that I think about it, I really wish I had a job, no matter how numbing and mundane, because I would at least have a warm  haven to spend some of my hours.  And I sure as hell ain't doing anything with the freedom my unemployment provides, as the interior of my head remains as grey and dreary as the weather.  However, Sunday was a rejuvenation.  I had planned on heading over to the Jump-Start Theater for the Methane Sisters' show.  I had received an email from the girls suggesting that if I whispered the code word “booty” at the ticket booth, I would gain admittance for only 6 bucks.

That afternoon I got a call from Russ.  Was I free to meet him at Tito's Tacos at 6:30?  The Jump Start show was at eight.  Plenty of time.  He was meeting a dancer / choreographer who wanted help putting together a dance film project.

Tito's was closed.  Me and Russ milled about at the bus stop and this lovely young woman walked up.  It was Christy Walsh, our 6:30.

We crossed the street to Madhatters Tea House and Cafe.

Christy pitched the project.  Me and Russ tossed out some ideas, not because her plan needed augmentation, but, I think, we were just refreshed to hear about a film project where the narrative element would be told through physical motion and abstract concepts.  You know, art.

Christy's not been in San Antonio all that long.  But as I fished around to see what art groups she had been affiliated with, I realized I had seen one of her performances.  It was back in 2005.  I was at the Radius art space with my friend Deborah.  Bill Colangelo and a musician from China were providing improvisational music as three women entertained us with modern dance. It was a small, intimate space.  A beautiful evening.  My thoughts that night are still quite clear.  San Antonio needs much more of this.

As we were placing our orders, Russ received some sort of ominous phone call, the details of which he has yet to share with me.  He did his best to keep smilingly on topic.  But I knew something was gnawing at him.  He said it wasn't important, and that he didn't need to rush off.  So I tried to move the conversation towards the nuts and bolts of the project — set-building, camera movements, lighting, et al.  Russ is a problem solver at heart, and I thought this would take his mind off … whatever.  I'm afraid, however, I kept drifting onto side topics.  Christy is that creature so rare to find in this city.  A polymath intellectual.  She'd obviously immersed herself deep in the liberal arts and emerged with her sense of playfulness fully intact.  She referenced, in the same sentence as I recall, Noh theater and the Cremaster cycle without an ounce of pretentiousness.  You gotta dig someone who choreographs a waltz to the music of Tom Waits.

The weird thing is that even though I'm involved in the “arts” (in the looser translation of the word), I find myself so rarely involved in conversation about art.

It might be simple enough to split the film / video world between Art and Media.  But the problem is that there is so much over-lap between the two designations.  I know that the films of Guy Maddin and Matthew Barney are art.  These are movies we usually see in museums.  Movies which often get funding through arts organization.  But for many folks who want to make movies, when you mention artistic filmmakers, they tend to think of Tarantino and Fincher.

But time passed, and after a few polite pokes in the ribs, I realized Russ needed to head out to his next stop of the night.  I looked at my cell phone (the 21st century pocket watch) and realized I'd missed the Methane Sisters.  But I got to meet a wonderful woman who I hope to work with in the future.  And René Guerrero, owner of Madhatters, came up to say hi.  He's looking fit and happy.  Truly the sweetest man to have instigated a draconian rule in his establishment.  No one can use a cell phone on the premises — for talking on, that is (my whole pocket watch thing was okay, I think).  Not that I have anything against a cell phone-free zone.  But you'd expect someone who posts such warning signs on his restaurant doors and windows to be a hard-ass.  Quite the opposite.  I can only assume he's a very complicated man.  What do I know about his motivations?  Perhaps a cell phone killed his grandmother.  I'm not here to judge.  Well, actually I am here to judge.  Hell, I do it all the time.  But selectively.  So, don't cross me!

And for those interested, I'll be heading over to the Jump-Start with a friend this Friday.  8pm.  Come on out.  The Methane Sisters (Monessa Esquivel and Annele Spector) appear in the incendiary weltuntergang of pathos and ecstasy entitled “As Filthy as it Gets.”  Leave your Handy Wipes at home, and come on down to Jump-Start! 

This weather isn't getting any more civilized.  It's cold and miserable and wet.

And I had to be in Seguin at 9 this morning for a fucking production meeting.  This meant getting up at an ungodly hour because, added to my normal morning schedule, I also had to walk my neighbor's dog.  Hmmm.  This has already become part of my morning schedule.  Leastwise on the weekends.  Damn that dog!

I let myself into Phil's house and looked around for Cutsie.  I found her in the bedroom. The dog shot me a baleful stare from beneath her matted tangle of bangs — she wasn't keen to be coaxed off the bed.  “Come on,” I grumbled, “it'll be invigorating.”  I looped the leash around her neck and dragged the poor beast into the clammy drizzle.  It made me think of one of Ivor Cutler's (RIP) short performance pieces I heard ages ago on the John Peel show.  Cutler was talking about a gruff working class Glaswegian family where the father suddenly looks up from his paper and ominously proclaims to the wife and kids: “We're going for a walk,” and with a sinking sense of dread, the family bundles up and follows dad out for a ghastly stroll around the grey neighbor of crumbling council flats as freezing rain creeps down all their collars.  But it's what Scottish families do in the evenings; they go out for a damn walk around the block, because it's a pleasant thing to do.  So shut up and enjoy it.

Once outside, Cutsie perked up.  She sniffed everything.  I had no hat, no umbrella.  I hunched my shoulders, ground my teeth until they squeaked, and ran through my generic lists of oaths which conveniently damn everyone and everything … in perpetuity, throughout the universe, as the lawyers like to say.

Eventually, I returned the dog to her master's bed.  And, back at my place, I finally fixed my morning coffee.  Ate a banana.  That was better.

The rain picked up on the 30 mile drive to Seguin.  What a mess.  At least I could enjoy my truck's heater. 

The meeting was held at one of the chief locations slated for this, the second feature film coming from the Nations Entertainment Group (NEG).  The film is to be entitled Leftovers.  And the DP (and co-producer), Russ, had secured the house of a friend of his to use for the protagonist's home.  He'd praised the place to me on many an occasion, and I was looking forward to seeing it.

Two things lifted my spirits today.  The great people on board as crew members.  And the incredible house we had at our disposal.

The house is on the Guadalupe River.  The banks are literally in the backyard.  It's lifted up, with garage and and a nifty woodworking shop on the ground floor.  Up on stilts, the house proper is wood and stone.  Large open rooms with sublime views out onto the river.  Dark-grained wood everywhere.  Quirky architectural devices throughout the place.  It's a stunning house.

It brought to mind the locations and sets of some of David Lynch's films.  I'm a huge fan of Dune.  True, there are some great actors doing some horrible acting.  The story is presented in such a stiff, unyielding fashion, that it's hard to follow the plot.  But, the art design sings!  Hand-carved ornamental paneled walls on a space ship?  Hell yeah!  That's the future I'm hoping for.  Twin Peaks had some of the most incredible interiors of any TV series, ever.  And one of the few things I remember about Lost Highway is the house's interior.  A clear attention to design and interior decor is a hallmark of Lynch's work.  This location will give us something to work with.

It was a male-bonding morning.  Robin (writer/director) wasn't there.  And for some weird reason, there are no woman in the key production roles.  (Russ mentioned something about the art department being staffed with “a bunch of girls;” a statement that hit a solid “yikes!” on my stereotype meter.  We'll just have to wait and see how things play out.)

Anyway, it was Kevin, Russ, Bob, Mark, Eric, Rudolfo, Larry, and me (that gives us one too many Eric/k's on set).  We spent a few hours working in the house with the equipment, testing things out.  We set up lights, ran sound, and shot picture.

The camera is on loan from a San Antonio software company.  The JVC HD100.  Yep.  We're going high def.  I'm dubious if this makes much sense.  I still think standard definition, intelligently lit and shot, can blow up well enough to a 35mm print.  However, that's unlikely for this project.  Though, certainly, it will give us an edge on visual resolution.  How much of an edge?  I still haven't developed an opinion.  But we'll do our best with that advantage.  Also, on a positve note, Robin and Kevin are set up to edit in HD.  The “in-kind” donation quotient is very high on this shoot.  And that's always good news.

Over a year ago I attended a sales session where a representative of JVC had given a pitch about the camera to me and maybe ten other people.  I was unimpressed by the footage they showed.  It didn't look all that cleaner and sharper than what I'd seen on well shot SD projects, such as what AJ Garces does with his Canon XL-2.  But I was still very impressed by the camera, and the system built around it.  JVC had obviously given serious thought to make themselves desirable for low budget narrative films.

Today, however, was the first time I was able to hold one of these cameras.  It's lighter than I expected.  Not Fisher-Price light.  But not as substantial as, say, the Canon XL-H1 HD.  But I like it.  The lens it comes with (which, like the Canon, can be replaced with a high-end professional lens) works quite well.  The focus, zoom, and aperture ring are all set up like a real film camera.  I'm looking forward to returning to more of a photo work flow, where we can use discrete and specific information like zoom setting and aperture, and matching this stuff for reverse shots.  We'll be needing a tape measure!

We're trying to figure out how to acquire an HD field monitor.  If anyone wants to loan us one, shoot me an email.  I'm assuming my non-high def field monitor is useless.  But what do I know?  This HD world is a new one to me.